


Frost and Fire

by ltoadreamer



Series: What Burns Bright [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Betrayal, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/M, Freeform, Murder, New Beginnings, Second Chances, Survival, Thief, Thieves Guild, non-canon solutions, references to mods throughout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13381518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ltoadreamer/pseuds/ltoadreamer
Summary: Frost and fire, blood and gold. The Dark Brotherhood has always worked nearly parallel to the Thieves Guild, never stepping on each other's toes, and sometimes even looking out for each other. But when the Brotherhood goes up in flames, it is time for the Thieves Guild to look out for what is left of it.A story sub-parallel to Heart of Arson. F!Non-Dovahkiin x Brynjolf





	1. NEW Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                He looked like a broken bird when she had found him, laying in a mangled heap of red and black in the despicable ruins of Raldbthar, stiff and cold, twisted, shattered, an arrow splintered through his chest and his blood smeared down the wall he had struck and died against.

                He had been gone too long, and their Mother sent her looking.

                And she found him.

                She bundled her beloved broken bird in a traveling cloak and took him home so they could properly mourn and buried him at the edge of Falkreath’s cemetery.

                Just another unmarked grave of a Brother.

                Gaban.

                Strange how that was her first thought.

                Gaban, that squirrelly little Breton she had grown fond of.

                Dead.

                A hiss crept past lips that tasted hot and sweet like blood, head and shoulders and back and knees and elbows throbbing with pain, curled up at the bottom of an empty iron tomb that was chilled as death, still reeking of the corpse it had once contained.

                Now all it held was her.

                Slowly, she peeled herself away from the bottom, listening to the rush of water that echoed like thunder on the coffin, and with both feet firmly planted at the entrance, she heaved and pushed, gasping with surprise as the chamber began to flood and then with more effort, pushed open the solid doors to her freedom.

                One of the old matrons had told her a story of the Red Tower when it erupted.

                She had said that the cinders fell like snow in the wake of the horror.

                It was a bitter elegy of savagery and eloquence that sang through the seeping darkness with unrivaled beauty, mysteries of curves and lines set in shades of grey visible from the gaps in what little remained of the cavern ceiling, hope clinging desperately to her like stagnate ink as she waded through the pool.

                Hope.

                But as she pulled herself onto the stones where Nightshade once grew, she called out into the darkness and the emptiness of her sanctuary echoed slowly back.

                Silently, a droplet wobbled on the end of her nose.

                And then fell.

                Looking back, she saw the path of her escape, the broken stained glass the Night Mother’s coffin had fallen through, and with haste, she wobbled to her feet.

                _Babette_!

                _Nazir_!

                They had been the last names on her lips, calling out to them before the ceiling fell and she had jumped back. Stumbled over the Night Mother’s body that laid crumpled on the ground, cut down from her display case to make it light enough to push through the window, and fell right into the Night Mother’s place. The doors had closed upon her, and then she heard the crash.

                And felt pain.

                Then darkness came.

                “Nazir!” she shouted, loud as she dared for caution of the Penitus Oculatus who might have lingered after the assault. “Babette!”

                But there was only silence left for her, scratched into the earth like a message.

* * *

 

So much thanks goes out to Brontide-Art @ tumblr for drawing this! Here's a view of Reignhart for you! Check out Brontide's art, they're amazing!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Word of the Penitus Oculatus Commander’s rage spread fast as fire on the whispers the Guild followed.

                In their time, Brynjolf knew that the Dark Brotherhood had angered a great many people in their time, but this was the first time he had seen Delvin almost visibly anxious over whatever that outfit had stepped in and hadn’t quite scraped off their boot. A plot for the Emperor’s murder was something huge, the chaos that it would make would be massive, the opportunities endless. Records can be lost, taxes can be forgotten, and laws aren’t always enforced. New guards often too busy learning their responsibilities to notice a few smuggled goods or minor robberies.

                Markarth was an example, still a mess from the Stormcloaks taking power over the Hold, but with the new Jarl putting every man, woman, and child on edge it was almost impossible for the Guild to regain their footing in the city.

                That city was one neither Delvin or Vex wanted to give jobs to any average thief, least the Guild dwindle once more.

                They were a dying breed, they were, the skilled heist-runners and burglars and shillers and sweepers and bedlamers and fishers and number-forgers. One of these days, they’d have to face the music.

                Their luck was just plain running out.

                Just like the last of Sithis’s protection had seemed to run out for his Children.

                It was impossibly slow in the Flagon and Cistern, no jobs worth the attention of the more seasoned thieves available. Etienne Rarnis was in Whiterun, still working on regaining his footing after his shaky encounter with the Thalmor nearly two years ago, footing that had been trampled when word came that another of their own had been caught and tortured.

                Loriel almost didn’t make it out of that one alive, and he was still huddled under Jarl Stormcloak’s overly protective wing, a fact that would have sold for good money if that Altmer had been just the well-wanted bard that he was.

                But he wasn’t just that.

                He was the only reason the Guild hadn’t sank as fast as they could have.

                And best yet, Maven _owed_ him.

                And she didn’t like owing anyone _anything_.

                Thankfully, Loriel was the humble sort. Liked to keep his head down, stay out of politics, not pick sides, didn’t hold anything over anyone’s head without reason, and he preferred his payments to be kept small.

                Microtransactions.

                It made everyone’s hands look cleaner in the long-haul and that suited everyone just fine.

                Speaking of clean hands, that reminded him that tomorrow was going to be a rare occasion for the Guild at the request of Loriel. All hands were to be idle in Riften, a gift for his brother’s wedding. Weddings were easy targets in Riften but you don’t steal from your own family.

                And Loriel was definitely family.

                Which was why it surprised Brynjolf all the more when Delvin came to him with a special request of his own. Something personal. And Delvin didn’t usually do personal. Which made it all the more serious.

                _Word of that fire’s got me worried_.

                _Check on them_.

                _If its true then I want to know_.

                Just check on them.

                Stick his nose into Falkreath, poke around the Sanctuary, don’t do anything risky, just observe and come back.

                Simple job.

                It was an absentminded drizzle in comparison to the downpour that had hit the gloomy Hold days ago, but it felt like no amount of rain could dampen the stench of the charred ruins, black tainting the grey of the cliff face that had once concealed the sanctuary’s entrance, a sinister skull-faced door laying in shattered pieces in the tunnel, and in front of the path, a powerful looking horse was pacing anxiously, chewing at the bit in its mouth, its sin red eyes rolling, stink of sweat and blood almost radiating off of it like heat.

                Gut instinct told Brynjolf that angering that beast was a death sentence, the mangled corpses of Penitus Oculatus at least confirming the theory, each one looking crushed to death by powerful hooves, and with great caution, Brynjolf scouted the area, weary of the beast and any others that might show.

                The landscape of the area seemed to have changed a little, certain areas in the nearby hills appearing sunk, trees that Brynjolf knew had been standing upright months ago nearly keeled over from the weight of their branches now that their roots no longer had much solid left to hold onto.

                The tunnels of the Sanctuary had likely collapsed some.

                But news of a horse, however unique, wasn’t really news to bring back to Delvin.

                He had to go inside.

                He had to check.

                He followed the cliffside, creeping past the black horse and to the mouth of the home, a tree littered with broken arrowshafts the only thing of note as he passed, taking great care not to touch anything as his descent began.

                There was more ash than he had ever expected the place to contain, large flecks floating through the air on a breeze that wafted up from the depths, the faint reek of water and the sound of splashing. A waterfall? Somewhere beneath that though, Brynjolf noted, was the shallow sound of coughing.

                Coughing meant that someone was alive in this ruin.

                Someone had _survived_.

                Through the darkness, the Nord noted patterns in the ash.

                Drag marks.

                Wet ones that came from outside in the weather and went lower.

                A broken arrow shaft.

                A few.

                Another drag mark started within the first small room that the wet trail moved through, this one with the distinct mark of something with a tail, flecks of charred scales lingering against whatever it scraped. Down the stairs, where the sound of water and coughing were louder and the glow of torchlight bounced off walls and drew long shadows.

                Ash and death.

                Scattered torches had been lit, shoved into the soft ground near the pool of water or propped up on the edges of things to stay aglow, slowly dying from time and neglect, and in the dim glow, Brynjolf could count three bodies, human, a fourth that was Argonian, and then there was a hulking shape that he could only fancy from scarce views might have once been a werewolf.

                He didn’t know much about who the Dark Brotherhood took in under their wing, but they seemed to take in all sorts based on the skills that suited their penchant for death.

                As for the coughing…

                He almost missed it entirely until a large rock was hefted out from above the waterfall and hit the pool with a loud splash.

                Coughing.

                And the sound of straining effort.

                Through the broken circle of a window.

                Whoever it was, he hoped they didn’t know that he was there. The last thing he needed was an irate survivor coming at him for trespassing and having to bring Delvin bad news as the result.

                But whoever they were, they were cautious too.

                Where they were beyond that broken window was a mystery no matter what angle of the chamber Brynjolf looked from, even when he stood on rubble.

                Even when another piece of ruin went tumbling out the window and added itself to the pool.

                How long had they been digging like that? The water was almost overflowing already.

                A sharp barrage of coughing echoed thick through the cavern, catching both of them by surprise and Brynjolf froze where he stood in the shadows, a figure stumbling forward from the depths, wearing as much soot as the ground he had walked upon, streaks of color far and few as the individual braced themselves against the edge of the window, long pale hair draping down as they leaned over to sharply hack up their lungs.

                At one point in time, all that hair had been pulled back, some of it still was, but perhaps in the chaos it had slipped loose of its tie, perhaps at the same time it got so much blood in it.

                A head injury?

                And they were still moving around with purpose, excavating the cave-in on their lonesome, a row of bodies lined up by the water, they were collecting their losses.

                Paying their respects one last time.

                Strange how this one survivor wanted to honor what was left of their family when they could be running instead.

                There could be other survivors.

                And there they were, doing this on their own.

                Brynjolf wondered if this might be among the tales he’d tell over flagons of mead, ale, and wine to his friends within the Guild as he steeled himself for the doubtlessly stupid move he was about to pull.

                Behind the safety of the suviving column that kept the cavern from completely collapsing, Brynjolf drew a breath and spoke. “Looks like your outfit’s had a run of bad luck.”

                The coughing stopped for a startled moment before it became hacking.

                And then it stopped again.

                For once, the silence made him nervous.

                “I’m a friend, not a Penitus Oculatus.”

                He could only hear his own breath as he waited for a response.

                None came.

                “I’m going to come out now, aye?”

                There was no reply.

                Slowly, Brynjolf dared to step out from behind the safety of the column, eyes locked on that broken window.

                But that figure wasn’t standing there anymore.

                Did they retreat to the safety of the shado-

                The answer became clear when he felt the cold edge of a knife to his throat.

                “I’ll be taking your weapons. Yes?”

                Their voice, _her_ voice, was a low, almost wheezing rasp, trembling like the blade against his throat, like a cough was trapped in her throat, barely contained. She had taken advantage of the drumming waterfall to muffle her footsteps in order to reach the other side of the pillar, maneuvering herself _behind_ him for when he decided to expose himself.

                Clever.

                Cautious.

                His adam’s apple bobbed against the blade as he swallowed, slowly reaching with one hand to remove the sword at his hip and offer it to her, feeling the weight of her touch before it was taken, restraining a wince as he heard the metal hit the ground and then a soft, “dagger as well, if you please.”

                “Come now, lass. I’m just here to-”

                The press of her blade was firmer against his neck for a moment before the tickle in her chest finally caught up with her and she coughed, one brief moment of faltering and he took the opportunity to take one long step away from her, and then another.

                A safe distance.

                For both of them.

                And then he finally got a good look at her.

                Black smeared and ran from around her eyes, warpaint that had dripped down over her lips and worn away with time in reminiscence of Sithis’s charred skull, shadows from the torches making her look near gaunt. She was in disarray, light hair wild and filthy, plastered down in spots, pale lips livened with red.

                And those eyes of her.

                Those dark, dark eyes.

                Those eyes never left him, steady and calculating even as she winced with her coughing, slim daggers clutched in both fists as she braced herself against the column.

                Blood flecking her mouth.

                How long had she been inside this cave that still reeked of smoke?

                Had she been breathing it since the attack?

                Brynjolf kept his hands where she could see them as he asked, “are you the only one who made it, lass?”

                Her hacking slowly began to subside and he kept his patience just as she kept hers, she was the wounded predator who was certain to attack if aggravated, and she finally rasped out, “who wants to know?”

                “Delvin Mallory sent me. You know who that is, don’t you, lass?”

                She did.

                He was certain that she did by the subtle way her posture almost sagged, sharp features briefly going sharper, jaw tightening and cheeks bitten. Then her expression relaxed.

                “I see,” she murmured.

                Then sheathed her daggers, sliding them into her sleeves where they all but disappeared entirely.

                And she took a step back.

                _Turned_ her back on him.

                And started walking back over to the rocky edge beside the waterfall.

                “Lass?”

                “No one made it. Everyone’s dead,” she declared hollowly as she began climbing.

                No one but her.

                “Lass.”

                “Leave.”

                Her order shook with the cough that followed it as she reached the ledge, dragging her legs up and allowed herself a moment to gather herself, to breathe after it took the wind from her chest, and then she disappeared past the window again.

                Delvin wasn’t going to like this.

                Frowning deeply, Brynjolf gathered his sword from where she dropped it, and watched another bit of rubble get tossed out through the broken window, another echoing splash.

                One more joined the rest in the water before he decided what to do.

                And he began to climb.

                The survivor was knelt among the rubble, moving what she could under poor torchlight, slowly wiggling and wedging stones loose to try to get them out of the way.

                “Do you intend to bury yourself, lass?” he asked as he stepped over a dusty portion of blackened skull and broken jawbone, the crushed thing surely centuries old and wrapped in cloth and cut rope-a draugr?-and he weathered her silence as she ignored him in favor of pulling loose a heavy bit of rock.

                She ignored him as she pushed it out the window, and kept going.

                Kept digging.

                His breath puffed, stirring the dust as she paused to cough, and he knelt beside her.

                _Added_ his hands to the clearing of the rubble.

                That, now, _that_ made her react.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Helping, since you need it.”

                “I don’t need help.”

                “You’re looking for something, lass, I can tell. Survivors. Bodies. I don’t know. But you’re not willing to stop. How long have you been at this? Searching for them? Since the Imperials went quiet? Are you so certain to join the rest of your family that you want to be buried with them too?” he questioned.

                Aside from the coughing that restarted, her answer was silence, and he waited until she was done before he continued.

                “How many are we looking for, lass?”

                She was quiet.

                He pulled a bit of rubble loose and tossed it out the window with the rest.

                And then he heard it, barely above a whisper.

                “Two.”

                That one word held more emotion than anything else he had yet to hear.

                After that, he let her have her silence, since she wanted it so badly.

                As they worked together towards her single-minded goal.

                To retrieve what was left of her family.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                It had taken the entire night just to excavate a few feet into the ruins, just a few feet, but it had been enough for the pale woman to reach her goal, unflinching as she pulled what little left there was of her fallen friends from the bottoms of the stones and off the ground, bits of bone and gore held together by bloody clothing, and laid their mess beside the others.

                Only then did Brynjolf get to witness the stillness of her grief.

                He wondered how long she sat there, how long he sat there watching her, before he wondered what she would do next.

                Did she have anywhere to go?

                Did she have any family at all?

                She was the only survivor of the Dark Brotherhood, a contract killer who just survived a massacre. If anyone knew her identity as an assassin, that could only lead to more death. Her death.

                What would she do now?

                But right now, what would she do next?

                For now though, there she sat, leaning against the remaining support column looking small as a child, gazing out over her fallen comrades blankly.

                “They should be buried.”

                Impossibly dark eyes turned upon him when he spoke, torch light failing to reflect in them as they watched him rise to his feet and he slapped the ash and dirt off the front of his armor, an absent and distracting filler for her silence as he declared, “I’ll see what I can do about making graves for them, lass. In the meantime, you should get some fresh air.”

                It would do her cough some good.

                He didn’t wait for her reply either as he left, sucking in grateful lungful’s of smokeless breeze as he surfaced from the ruins, skirting around the awareness of that unnatural black beast that lurked in the drizzle, and as he tucked his tell-tale armor beneath his traveling cloak, Brynjolf made his way to Falkreath.

                The groundskeeper, Kust, would make sure seven new graves would be taken care of after Brynjolf had a good word with him. A favor for a favor, after all, his friend Runil had some dirty laundry that would hurt them both if it got out.

                Neither one needed to know that his safety and security was vouched for though.

                A little healthy fear never hurt anyone.

                By nightfall, Kust promised there would be seven empty graves and a shovel waiting for them to deal with their business.

                With that matter taken care of, Brynjolf made his way back to the sanctuary.

                The pale woman was an astonishing view, shameless as she stood in the knee-deep water of the pond, skyclad under the rain, clean and calm with wound-wrapped arms comfortably wound around the strong neck of that great black horse, its large head protectively bowed over her small back, her long white hair draping down, clinging to the faint curves of her bruise-covered body.

                Without the gaunt warpaint, she did not look so frightening.

                In fact she almost looked harmless.

                Helpless, wounded as she was.

                But Brynjolf knew better.

                And then he noticed two sets of eyes on him, one red framed by black of the beast, the other black framed by the pale of the woman.

                If she was at all surprised by his presence, she didn’t show it as she patted the creature’s neck, murmuring, “this one is on our side, Shadowmere,” and then stepped out from under its protection.

                “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she told him, not looking at him as she stepped out of the water and under the dry overhang of the cliff where a set of clothes were folded and waiting for her.

                He eyed the horse as he leaned under the shelter of a great tree, “Your family can be buried tonight,” he told her, “west side of the graveyard, closest to the Hall of the Dead.”

                “I see.”

                He observed the practiced ease with which she arranged herself, bandages wrapped tightly about raw knuckles and wounded fingers, bruises lining up with belts as she strapped dagger sheaths to her wrists, a underbust waist-cinch that he recognized as both back support and stomach armor, and then came the inconspicuous attire, plain pants, a shirt that nearly swam on her, faded and well-worn gloves, boots that she slipped another dagger into, all pulled together when she twisted her hair up into a neat style, making her look mundane as any civilian.

                Normal almost.

                But there was still that look in her eyes.

                That thousand-yard gaze.

                “You look exhausted, lass.”

                Those eyes flicked over to him.

                And then back down as she pulled a belt with a little more force than necessary.

                Annoyed?

                “When did you last sleep? Or eaten for that matter?” Brynjolf found himself asking.

                She answered him with silence as she stepped back out into the rain, approaching the horse, and she would have pulled herself into the saddle if he hadn’t caught a hand around her forearm.

                The great black horse turned to nip at him and he stepped away from it, but not her.

                She stared at the hand he had on her.

                “Lass.”

                “I need to get a cart.”

                To carry the dead all the way to the graveyard.

                “You need to take care of yourself first, lass. Your family won’t be buried any faster if you drop from exhaustion,” he told her.

                That made her eyes lift to his.

                A muscle in her jaw clenched, then unclenched.

                “Just get some food in you and a couple hours rest, alright? That’s all I ask. If you don’t trust me to watch out for you while you sleep, I think you can at least trust your horse.”

                For several long heartbeats, they stood still as death.

                And then she let go of the saddle.

                She didn’t trust him. Wouldn’t. He could tell by the way she held herself as the two of them settled down beneath a sheltering tree, Shadowmere keeping watch of their surroundings as Brynjolf shared his rations with her and then watched her draw her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her entire being turning small as she tucked her head against her knees and went very still.

                He hoped that she actually did sleep.

                She needed it after spending the rest of yesterday’s afternoon and all night digging with him and all the time before without. Whatever she had done with that telling armor she had been wearing, he had no idea. No doubt she had hidden it while he was dealing with funeral arrangements that morning.

                It was probably for the better too.

                Less to tie her to it.

                Less connections to be made.

                Eventually though, Brynjolf rose to his feet, the girl not stirring even when he draped his traveling cloak around her, and that great black horse eyed him as he wandered off to find a cart he could steal, and she hadn’t moved at all when he returned with dusk’s dying light.

                “Lass?”

                A disinterested grunt answered him without her lifting her head and he huffed in amusement.

                Well, she was still breathing, that was good at least.

                “It’s time to get going,” he told her, feeling she would be more appreciative of this response rather than a lighthearted jab.

                Slowly, she unwound herself from her position, joints popping with every movement as she rose to her feet and briefly stretched before she helped him with fetching the bodies and gingerly piling them into the cart, blood and ash dirtying her previously clean clothes once more. If she noticed at all, she didn’t care as she tied ropes from the cart poles to the saddle horn to make it all the more easy.

                And side by side, they wordlessly walked ahead of the beast under the light of the full moons, easing the cart up and down the hills that stood in their way, and side by side, they put her family in their open graves.

                They buried her people and he watched as she silently marked each with a large stone, every one given one last long lingering touch, her lips moving but not a sound was made as she addressed them.

                Perhaps this would be the last time.

                And then, after the last one had been given her attention, Brynjolf watched curiously as she approached a different grave, marked much the same, and gave it her attention.

                Another Brother buried.

                Her shoulders dropped after some time and then she rose back to her feet, seeming exhausted again.

                “What do you plan to do next, lass?” he found himself asking.

                And she looked at him, her expression more humanly soft than he had seen it before, with sadness open in her gaze.

                After a moment, her gaze dropped and she stepped to her horse, stroking its great neck quietly, thoughtfully, before she answered.

                “I will go to the place where the end began.”

                Whatever that meant to her, it was important.

                And she pulled herself up into Shadowmere’s saddle.

                “If you’re ever in Riften-”

                “If I am, I’ll stop by the Flagon,” she interrupted.

                And without another word, she kicked her heels into the black horse’s sides and the beast took off as if creatures of Oblivion were after them.

                For a stunned moment, Brynjolf stood there, alone in the graveyard, before realization struck him.

                _Never got her name_.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

               Seven people gave her pause that night and only one of them was able to walk away with their head still attached to their body.

                That man stood a full head taller than her, was easily twice her weight, at least two years older than she was, had hair the color of the Rift’s auburn autumn leaves, eyes green as spring, and an accent she couldn’t lay her finger on.

                Brynjolf of the Thieves Guild.

                An irritant whose help was only accepted based on the combination of his insistence to do so and the fact that he was one of Delvin’s boys.

                He laid hands on her only but once.

                That was once more than she allowed most people to lay hands on her.

                Not even Nolas Macro had managed the same, and the Listener had been missing two fingers at the second knuckle for an entire month before the Keeper came with the Night Mother. Three full months before that insufferable Imperial was exposed to be the Listener.

                Now, the Listener was buried under half a hill in the Sanctuary’s former dining area.

                It would have taken a week just for a team of miners to dig far enough just for her to be able to peel his corpse off the stones and bury him too, but he didn’t deserve such a fate, not after he nearly botched his task in the murder of Gaius Maro in Markarth and then proceeded to betray Astrid’s trust when she ordered him to kill Cicero in the sanctuary of Dawnstar, a task that _she_ saw to completion with the proof of the jester’s _head_ for her true matron.

                As reward for her victory and his failure, his bonus had become _hers_ , and the token sapphire, marked for the seer Olava’s favor, weighed almost heavy as it lay hidden between the folds of leather pressed against her gut.

                Only she and a few surviving gifts she took with were all that remained of the Dark Brotherhood.

                No more would she kill in the name of Sithis now that he had so blatantly abandoned them.

                No, this last murder would be in the name of her family.

                Inexhaustable, she pulled herself back into Shadowmere’s saddle and the tireless horse stormed over the corpses of the fool highwaymen who had dared to try to stop her.

                Volunruud called to her like an eerie whisper, the sky turning pink on the edge of the horizon as her breath turned to fog before her when she finally dismounted by the standing stones of the barrow.

                Shadowmere would be there when she came back.

                They were all they had left after all.

                Descending into the tomb, she followed the southwest path as she had before and found the place where she had met Amaud Motierre once before, Astrid too angry to allow the Listener to go, and carefully, she combed over the room.

                The fool had left his Black Sacrament laying out in the open as it had been when she first met him, a chest with the flattened bedroll of his bodyguard shoved in, not the plush thing she had seen that the Breton had no doubt lounged on for long hours while he waited for the arrival of the Brotherhood, no doubt taken with, and the urn which only held ash within it.

                Ah.

                But his bodyguard had not burned a receipt all the way, through the smudges of the charred parchment she could still see the inked edge of Whiterun’s famed banner.

                And with that small scrap of a clue, she retreated.

                By high sun, she would be at the city’s gates.

                And Amaud Motierre would find that it was not Sithis who demanded a soul, but Reignhart Frostfang, in fair trade for the steep price her family had paid.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                A disappointed pout and eyes half-lidded with weariness from riding all morning had been more than enough for Reignhart to convince the square-jawed dimwit into allowing her to house Shadowmere in the single empty stable stall. She wasn’t going to be there long, she promised him with a faint exhausted whine, pinching her brows and making her eyes glassy in annoyance, she just needed to give her fool brother-in-law, the forgetful bastard, the proof of purchase he neglected to pack, Divines save them if the merchants had arrived ahead of schedule otherwise they’d never get the tools to repair the water-wheel of their mill.

                Bobbing his head, he opened the stable for her and set about getting fresh water for her beast as she quickly settled Shadowmere, told him to behave, and spared the boy a tired smile and a septim for his kindness before she hurried up the path, expression discarded as soon as she no longer needed it and only reappearing when a guard was close enough to see her face.

                If she was a stranger in Whiterun, like a certain Breton and his Imperial bodyguard, where would she be but in a place where she could rest and drink?

                The Bannered Mare was noisy despite barely being half past noon, a few mercenaries mulling around, a couple day-drinkers, a few people having lunch.

                An Imperial in studded armor, casually sitting with his greatsword resting idly at his side, useless in its sheath.

                Pointless in a battle of close quarters.

                And _worthless_ against creatures of speed.

                You can’t kill what you can’t catch.

                Expression stilling, she drew herself to him, a slow, rhythmic stride like a wolf prowling openly among the prey, and those eyes of his flicked over at the movement before they settled on her.

                And widened.

                Good.

                He recognized the small woman out of uniform.

                “Well I’ll be damned. We heard you were dead,” he breathed and his eyes flicked towards a space behind him. “Motierre’s in the back room if you’ve got business.”

                And with the faintest tilt of her head, she walked past him, fingers splayed as they pressed the door before her open.

                “What is it?” a familiar voice grumbled, “I said I didn’t wish to… be disturbed.”

                And dark eyes rose to meet warmer ones.

                “I believe I have an appointment,” she murmured softly, closing the door behind her with the faintest _click_ , and she turned the lock.

                Amaud’s back straightened, his fine clothes wrinkled from his slouch in a chair far from comfortable for the position long term, a newly printed book flopping closed in the absence of his palm to keep the pages open.

                “By the gods… You… You’re alive!” he managed to spit out after a long moment of gawking.

                Her stride was languid and slow, comfortable as his anxiety spiked, “but I heard… your Sanctuary… Please! You mustn’t think I had anything to do with that! I wanted the Emperor dead!”

                She came to stand in front of him, easily close enough where she could reach out and touch him if she only wished to.

                “It was Maro! He…”

                “I am aware,” her low voice calmly crooned, “Just as you must be aware that today is the luckiest day of your life.”

                The faintest upwards curve touched her lips, a quirk of brows, and that was it.

                The barest display of kindness, and the folded like prayer slips in the last dredges of spring’s last snow.

                “You mean,” he voiced in awe, “after all that’s transpired, the Dark Brotherhood will still… honor the contract?”

                And her smile drew wider.

                “A soul is a soul after all.”

                He didn’t have time to make a sound, the pick plucked from where she had stowed it within the cut of her woven belt, and plunged it soundlessly into his yielding flesh and with a hand on his chest, she eased the man back against his chair before he fell on the ground.

                That would be too much of a hassle and she did like making things easy for herself.

                Calmly, she found the page in the book that looked as far enough in as she observed him being and placed his fingers across the pages, spreading them to weigh the spine open, and only when he was situated to lean against the table, elbow propping up with his hand against his jaw, she tugged the ice pick free and covered the wound with his palm, allowing his corpse to mannequin just as he had when she stepped in.

                Sliding the pick into the cushion of his own seat, she broke off the handle and slipped it into her boot before she turned back to the door.

                And smiled to herself.

                “Goodbye, Motierre,” she told the air quietly, expression steadying, and she retreated, quietly closing the door behind her.

                She gave a subtle nod to the bodyguard, a final farewell, and then easy as sunlight, she fled the scene of the crime right through the front gate, past dozens of guards none the wiser, and to the stable where the other beasts of burden shifted anxiously in their stalls from Shadowmere’s presence.

                The stablemaster squinted at her and she gave him a weary smile before she spotted the boy and allowed an expression of relief to crack across her face.

                “You find who you were looking for, miss?”

                “Oh yes, just in time too! Thank you so much for holding Shade here for my errand,” she cooed, playing pleased and she pressed another septim into his palm, so happy.

                He offered to check her saddle for her, make sure everything was good enough for her ride home, and she shook her head, “you are truly too kind but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

                And effortlessly, she hoisted herself back up into the saddle.

                She smiled so soft and near fond to the stablemaster as he stood behind his help, “your boy is a wonderful help. You should be very proud,” she praised, watching the way the youth’s jaw went slack and then brightened under the weight of her sugary words, before she mildly nudged her heels into Shadowmere’s sides, and she allowed him to maintain a mild trot away from the property of the city.

                When the stables were the size of her palm in the distance, she lifted her booted foot and allowed the broken tool to slide free and fall noiselessly into the grass.

                And although she wore no expression at all, she felt pleased.

                Amaud had paid blood price to her.

                He started this thing that had brought an end to everything she had come to care about in the last ten years, and so she repaid him in kind.

                The Night Mother’s dried husk lay in shards within the ruin of the last home of the Dark Brotherhood, her Listener driven deaf, Speaker rendered mute, and Keeper made still.

                No more.

                There was nothing more.

                All that was left of the Brotherhood was what had been left to her.

                A ghost.

                A token.

                A horse.

                A ring.

                And a dagger.

                She had nothing else.

                Nowhere to go.

                She belonged to nowhere anymore.

                So she went where her blood once belonged.

                And rode North to Dawnstar.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                It took him all night and half the morning to reach Whiterun before Brynjolf paid the carriage driver to take him back to Riften, feeling unsettled and almost annoyed.

                That _girl_ was the main source of the feeling, her one-track mind focused relentlessly only upon her desires, resulting in complete disregard for not only her safety but his own while she haphazardly retching rubble loose with those skinny arms of hers, time and time again dusting them with dirt when something too supporting was jerked free, nearly swaying on her feet if not for that creature disguised as a horse that she had wreathed herself against, feigning herself to have endless energy as she attempted to go find a _cart_ and yet she slept away the afternoon so solidly he would have felt envious if not for his irritation over having to fight _bandits_ for a _cart_ to haul _corpses_ in.

                She was a world of trouble.

                And he truly did not think that she would survive the month.

                She mourned, that much was obvious, but her grief seemed to be blind to everything around it.

                And it _frustrated_ him that he had placed so much effort in keeping her alive for the better half of a day and a half all for her to leave him in the mud kicked up by her beast.

                He was almost too annoyed to sleep, but eventually the jostling and swaying of the carriage lulled him into an uneasy rest, jolting awake every time a wheel struck a hole in the road and then dozing back off again, over and over until they were approaching the familiar gates of home.

                He gave his thanks to the driver and then walked his way around the wall, finding the spot where the stones stuck out and he scaled the wall, dropping down onto the other side and rolled to his feet, dusted the grass from his shoulders and hair, and stepped into the crypt that brought him into the cistern.

                “Bryn, you’re back,” Vipir stated, looking up from the cooking pot, “you missed quite a party.”

                “One I’m sorry I missed but duty called. The bard visited, yeah?”

                “Are you kidding? He actually had a chat with Mercer over his accounts.”

                Now that was a surprise.

                That Altmer didn’t like dipping into services unless he didn’t think he could manage it himself. Something he couldn’t charm his way through with that mouth of his, which meant he was either going to be spiteful or it was something serious. Either way, he and Mercer would be having a conversation later.

                Stepping through the cabinet, he checked the Flagon before making his way to the back room where he found Delvin snoring with his arms crossed tight over his chest, dagger in his hand.

                “Delvin,” he called softly, waiting a few long seconds before giving the headboard a mild kick, making the senior thief jolt from his sleep.

                “Ah- what- what?”

                Brynjolf smiled in amusement as the Breton’s eyes focused and then he frowned, dragging himself upright and he rubbed his face.

                “What did you find out?” he immediately asked.

                So it was to business right away.

                The man must have been worried, and Brynjolf settled himself down on the bed across from him with a heavy sigh.

                “One survivor. Everyone else is dead.”

                “Just one?” he frowned, expression almost pained.

                “A lass, Nord, short, pale hair, dark eyes.”

                “Not blond?”

                “Her hair was almost white.”

                And he let out a breath, grimacing as he let his head fall to his hand, scraping it over the scruff of his shaved head. “Astrid’s little girl,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Where is she?”

                “I don’t know. She took off as soon as she could. She was in the Sanctuary, collecting everyone when I found her. I helped her bury them and then she bolted.”

                “Damn it.”

                Brynjolf’s frown deepened.

                “What do you know about her?” he asked, slowly.

                When it came to Dark Brotherhood matters, Delvin wouldn’t always talk about it. The Nord knew he and the leader of the organization had been close back in their days, they still had met up here and there over the years, but beyond that, Brynjolf didn’t know how much he actually _knew_.

                He rubbed his face and heaved a sigh, nose wrinkling with his worry.

                “Her name is Reignhart. She showed up at the Brotherhood about ten years back and quickly became Astrid’s favorite. The two were… very close.”

                Astrid’s little girl. She was like a daughter to the leader of the group.

                And now she was alone and Brynjolf just _let_ her go off on her own.

                “I’m sorry, Delvin.”

                He shook his head and straightened up, “don’t be. You did what I asked, you did what you could, and that’s more than I could have hoped for given the situation. There’s someone alive. That’s good.”

                Somehow it didn’t quite feel good enough, but he let the topic drop since Delvin seemed to be done anyway.

                “So what did I miss?”

                Seemed that he did miss quite a party after all.

                Two additional versions of the bard had been in Riften with him, one an honest fool of a smith living in Solitude and the other the former Thalmor that Loriel had wrapped around his finger back when Loriel was dealing with _that_ problem. It was the Thalmor traitor who had been the one getting married, to a Nord and citizen of Windhelm no less, her parents present for the happy occasion. It did not surprise him to hear that the Jarl of Eastmarch had set aside his rule and the war he was running long enough to join the guest list nor that he stayed at Mistveil Keep as the Jarl’s guest, talking politics, business, and war all at once.

                What _did_ surprise him though was the fact that the Jarl had pushed the bard right into the canal and then spent fifty minutes in Loriel’s apartment following the reception that had been thrown at the Bee and Barb.

                The party left almost an hour after Laila Law-Giver finished her breakfast that morning, while Brynjolf had been halfway up the road to Whiterun from Falkreath,

                _And_ , just as Vipir said, Loriel had asked for a few favors to be carried out as soon as they could manage.

                “Both of them are right up Vex’s alley but one’s going to be a tight squeeze, what with the way things are,” Delvin admitted.

                “Our little Vex can handle anything Loriel is willing to toss at her.”

                “He wants dirt on the Silver-Blood family.”

                That.

                _That_ made him blink.

                So it was _that_ serious.

                “Apparently when the would-be king made his surprise visit to Markarth, he was dissatisfied with the way things were being ran. Even set aside an officer from his war to make sure prisoners were actually getting fed. Loriel’s aiming for any evidence we can get our hands on that could shake the family’s hold on the Reach by the time the Moot hands the crown off. And he’s not just paying for us to sneak in and do the job, he’s willing to pay per _piece_.”

                Now that held the potential for a _lot_ of coin.

                And with how dirty the general public knew the Silver-Bloods were, with a little digging, that even held the potential for cleaning out Loriel’s credit.

                “What’s the other job he wants?”

                “He wants someone in Windhelm,” Mercer’s voice growled, looming at the doorway, as gruff and disgruntled looking as Jarl Igmund’s dogs. “Searching for Thalmor spies.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The first time she came to the Pale as an adult, it felt like coming home.

                And it was.

                She had only been a small child back then, hardly capable of walking yet when she, an older sister, an older brother, her parents, and eight other members of their clan were forced to choose between exile from Skyrim or death at the order of Skald Felgeif not months after he succeeded his father as Jarl.

                Skald the Elder had become an ambitious product of his ancestors, the Felgeif family desperate to hold power and sparing no hesitation to throw anyone they perceived as enemies into the path of the stampede, and their biggest enemy had once been their greatest ally and friend, the Frostfang clan, standing at each other’s sides through frost and fire until poison crept into the veins of the Felgeifs the moment they tasted power, instantly forgetting their humble beginnings.

                The jarlson had stewed and plotted and the moment he sat on his father’s throne, he set his plan into action.

                Whispers had been passed down from one generation to the next, and the whispers that had twisted inside Skald the Elder’s gut had been that the Frostfang clan’s strength came from an allegiance to the Dark Brotherhood itself, and he took those whispers and turned it into evidence, hiring filth to sneak into their home and plant it in plain sight and then have the guards storm their home to find it. He then presented the clan with a choice: they could leave Skyrim and live, or they could be executed as allies of the Dark Brotherhood.

                They took their choice and left the only home they had known for the ash of Morrowind, adults bitterly encouraging their little ones to one day return and seek revenge.

                And Reignhart, well, she had always been the most straightforward of the latest generation.

                Skald the Elder wanted to accuse her family of supporting the Dark Brotherhood, well she’d give him a reason to accuse.

                He had cast the seeds upon the fields, created this enemy with his own hands, and had foolishly left so many _tools_ laying around for her to reap with.

                This was going to be _so_ much fun.

                For days, she slunk about Dawnstar out of view, committed the names, faces, political views, and schedules of every man, woman, and child who lived there to her mind, and memorizing the layout of ship that was docked and house that was settled both inside and out, the time it took to travel by rooftop or by the paths calculated, even Skald the Elder’s White Hall was just another fact tucked away for safe keeping.

                Upon his death, the people would choose a successor to the Pale Throne and that person was likely to be the retired Legion Legate Brina Merilis.

                Dawnstar and the Pale would be in good hands once Skald’s corpse was cold.

                Months would go into accomplishing this, quiet as sleep and subtle as a swallow, and, in fact, if she entrusted the right person for the job, she could be so far away when the traitor of Dawnstar breathed his last breath.

                But she wanted to see it happen.

                All she needed was time and a little trust from someone who wanted something for themselves.

                Word among the guard was that the Jarl wasn’t sleeping well at night and he was constantly shouting for his man-servant Bulfrek to do various things for him, and _Divines_ if his steward, housecarl, and the servant himself just wanted with all their being for the man to just sleep through the night for once.

                And Reignhart, well, she had just the remedy for their ailment.

                She just needed the weather to behave in just the right way for her to set her plan into action, and Driftshade Refuge was a perfect place to wait in the meantime, haunting the halls like a ghost and hiding the corpses of her prey in the shadows of the rafters, stirring up the fear of the bandits who lived there.

                What a game to play now that she had the opportunity.

                Things going missing, _people_ disappearing, and rare glimpses of a pale woman that would be gone by the time someone reached the spot, one of the victims of their last raid must be haunting them, they whispered amongst themselves.

                And then, the blizzard came.

                For three days, it raged outside the stony walls, all the while inside she taught those bandits the true meaning of fear as she laid ruin to them all, painting the floors sticky and sweet with their blood, the water running pink when she washed it from her skin and dressed warmly for what was to come next.

                And then, when the snow settled, she set out.

                Slowly, she traveled east and then north, followed the coast as the sky grew dark long before she reached the city and the guards with their torches only spared this weary traveler a few curious looks, paying her no true mind as she followed the paths until she found the largest house of all, the White Hall, with a lonely man sitting out on the front steps, holding his head and nursing a bottle of mead.

                There was her target.

                “Excuse me,” she said in a wispy soft voice, sniffing as she kept the heavy bear skin wrap about her face, shivering a little beneath, “can you tell me the way to the post? I fear I’m dreadfully lost.”

                Bulfrek looked up to her, frowning, as he looked her over. “You never been to Dawnstar before?” he grumbled.

                “No, sir, this is my first time.”

                “Well I don’t envy you,” he muttered, sighing before he brought himself to his feet and pointed over the houses. “you see that building on the other side of the harbor, two East Empire Trading Company flags flown above the door? There’s where you want to go, although you’ll have to wait until morning to send out whatever you got.”

                She squinted at where he pointed, feigning innocence and poor night-sight as she asked, “the flags with the boats on them?”

                “Never seen anything for the East Empire before?”

                “No, sir. Couriers are almost as rare as travelers in Winterhold, and my father’s never let me travel too far from the city until… until now…” she said and softened almost sadly.

                “What brings you so far from home?” he asked, picking up on the play of emotions.

                “My father has been having a dreadful time with sleep, waking up every few hours. He refuses to do business with the mages at the College to get relief, so he gave me permission to go to the post and order the old remedy he used back when I was a baby,” she told him.

                At the mere mention of sleeping remedies, she could see the way his eyes lit up, the cogs turning in his head.

                “An old remedy huh?”

                “Yes,” she told him, almost blissfully, smiling, “he said it was the greatest thing he’d ever tried, sometimes he even had trouble wanting to get out of bed in the morning, it worked so well.”

                Curiously, Bulfrek rubbed the dark scruff on his face, “I don’t suppose, by chance, you’d be willing to tell me what that remedy is? I’ve been having trouble sleeping at night myself,” he said slowly.

                “Oh? It’s conium. My father want’s it shipped from Cyrodiil but I’ve heard that it grows as far north as the Rift. I’d get it myself, and much faster than waiting for the post to bring it to us, but father doesn’t think I’m sturdy enough for traveling so far, even though I made it here just fine,” she pouted, heaving a sigh.

                Unless he had some secret skill in alchemy, Bulfrek wouldn’t know that conium growing as far north as the Rift was better known as poison hemlock.

                “You could hire a mercenary to protect you,” he suggested.

                “We only have enough money to spare for the parcel though…”

                Glancing back at the Hall, he rubbed his mouth, and then, “tell you what. I’ll help you with hiring a mercenary if you pick a bit of that stuff for me too.”

                “Really?” Reignhart asked, lighting up.

                “Sure. Just give me a moment.”

                And he skirted back inside the Hall.

                Reignhart waited there outside the Jarl’s longhouse for much longer than a moment, and she was keenly aware that the Jarl was likely the reason for Bulfrek being kept so long by the time he slipped back out again, passing her a hefty purse of coin.

                “That should be enough.”

                With that little gift, the servant sent her on her way, blissfully unaware of the part he would be playing in her plan, and she sought the comfort of the Inn, to rest for the night.

                In the morning, she would be off towards the Rift.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Windhelm was a city built on opportunities and broken lockpicks, old Gallus used to say, boasting an even greater number of wealthy citizens than Solitude and over a certainly smaller area than the Jewel City of Skyrim.

                It was good practice for everyone in the Guild, providing one didn’t get caught by some of the most blood-thirsty guards in the country, and for a task of this magnitude, they needed as many hands on deck as could be spared. Even Vex was postponing the great task of Markarth, something that could be done in a few short days of poking around the home of Nepos the Nose and the Treasury House that belonged to the Silver-Bloods themselves, for the sake of the Bard of Windhelm’s job.

                It was no great heist, not by any means, but it wasn’t every day a Guild got to have bragging rights of breaking into every home in a city. Especially when searching for the Thalmor’s dirty laundry.

                Loriel had specifically requested… subtleness though.

                He didn’t want to hear about a lot of things going missing and duly being reported to the guard. The less attention that could be brought to the Guild during the investigation, the better.

                For the good behavior though, he was certainly willing to compensate.

                If it wasn’t for the Mer’s persistent hatred and suffering at the hands of the Thalmor, not one person in the Flagon would have believed that Loriel Elsinlock himself was willing to almost clear out his entire line of credit practically in the name of Eastmarch’s staunch protector and ruler.

                But he just about had.

                For everything that had occurred in the year before, for everything that Loriel had said in the year he had spent chasing dragons and dealing with far more trouble than he was typically willing to tolerate, Brynjolf knew that something had changed in the Altmer’s heart.

                Something that made a man who had spent half of his very long life running away finally stand his ground and fight.

                And as Brynjolf held his breath in the few rafters in the Palace of Kings, he saw why as Loriel gently pressed Skyrim’s would-be High King back against the door, the two kissing long and slow, unhurried like lovers who only wanted to delay the inevitable of a long and lonely night without the taste of each other’s skin under their fingertips, burning it into their minds as though afraid any moment might be the last opportunity that they had.

                For what felt like a very long time, he waited until keen ears picked up the softest whisper of “Awake?” on the familiar light and husky voice of the singer, and Brynjolf inwardly rolled his eyes, wondering if he was going to have to wait through a bedding.

                “You are.”

                That was the answering rumble of his gruff Nord lover, the sound steady and low like a roll of distant thunder.

                Somewhere in those three words, Brynolf felt as though he was overhearing something incredibly intimate, observing the way the two leaned against each other, forehead to forehead, until the two finally stepped apart with reluctance and Ulfric left, looking just as unruffled as he had when he had arrived some short minutes ago.

                “That looked like more than your usual affair,” Brynjolf stated as he dropped down from the shadows, startling a flinch out of the Altmer who whirled on him.

                “Stop doing that!” Loriel hissed, face flushed rose gold with annoyance and embarrassment at being caught in such a way.

                Brynjolf chuckled warmly as the bard scowled and huffed, stalking away from the door and then tugging the young Nord into a brief hug paired with affectionate slaps on the back.

                “Missed seeing you last time at the Flagon, lad.”

                “Sadly,” Brynjolf explained as they parted, “Delvin felt his task was more important than your brother’s wedding.”

                “Were you really checking on the Brotherhood?” the Mer asked, one brow quirked, distaste in the fine wrinkle at the bridge of his nose.

                “Aye. They were once his family too, you know.”

                “The Thalmor were once my family too, that doesn’t mean I have to like _nor_ support the livelihood of either group of mass murderers.”

                “I know, believe me, Riel, I know. He just wanted some ease.”

                “He was hoping for survivors, and no, I don’t want to know if there are any. That group has plagued me more times than I can count,” the bard huffed bitterly, long bow-strong arms taunt over his chest.

                “They would have gone after your head significantly fewer times if you used fewer aliases.”

                “And let the Thalmor catch up to me before the Civil War? Perish the thought.”

                “Speaking of the Civil War,” Brynjolf carefully drawled, quirking a curious brow, “you and the Jarl? Really?”

                Loriel’s face flushed, this time without the previous nip of annoyance as softness touched his expression, answer enough to his question, and the thief smiled.

                “So you fell in love with your lonely king.”

                The irritated heat returned to the Mer’s blush, scowl sharp as he defended himself, “I’m not in love,” all too quickly to make the lie come across as honesty, long ears twitching with guilt when Brynjolf’s grin made him quickly make note his error. “Ass,” he grumbled under his breath huffily.

                “It’s no business to me what you do, Riel. Just be careful.”

                “I’m the very _epitome_ of caution itself, young man. So what do you have for me?”

                To business it was then.

                Unfortunately though, Brynjolf didn’t have very much to report for. In the last two weeks since they had begun the assignment, they had scoured a good many houses, businesses, and rooms in the palace, and only had recently picked up a clue that the tanner who provided most of the leather for Windhelm’s personal armory blacksmith might be one of the rats. They’d spare one of their people to give it a better look while continuing to sweep the city, every nook and cranny would be searched several times over before they would dub the job thoroughly completed.

                Fortunately, when it came to Loriel, any news was better than no news and the update satisfied him well enough, the gold skin barely visible as a shadow under the aurora as he gave Brynjolf a final wave before dropping his end of the rope and closing the window for his subtle escape from the city; It was much easier than scaling walls and even more so than breaking into that room in the first place, Ysgramor’s builders certainly making things particularly difficult for any broad-shouldered sneakthief with those high, slim windows the Palace of Kings had, that was for sure.

                He’d have to repair at least one pocket on his armor when he found time.

                The trek back to Fort Kastav was uneventful if one ignored the single snowsabre and pair of ice wolves, and he passed off the location of the carcasses for the pelts to one of the boys as he hauled himself into the saddle, his turn for passing an update to Mercer just as much as it had been his turn to update Loriel, and he was in no hurry. Things would occur in the city of Windhelm with or without him, and besides, it was always a good time to take in the small pleasures in life.

                Delvin at least would be pleased to hear that Loriel seemed to be moving up in the world, moving on from heartbreaking losses that had grounded him with fear and shaken him for decades, the barely restrained emotions that the Altmer held mutually with his typically grim lover so obvious in the way they held each other like the both of them finally really had something to _lose_.

                If Ulfric Stormcloak himself could make Loriel finally reach out for something more than just the tiniest scattered pleasures he could take in his life full of fear then good for him. Good for them both. It was about time.

                The aurora-shimmering icefields eventually broke to the misty hotsprings, and dawn stretched over the sheltering border mountains as a yawn shook in his chest.

                He still had a ways to go before he reached Riften but he was close enough to Cragpeak that he could have Bofur keep his horse cozy for a while, rest his head without the man’s overwhelmingly sour body odor, and he’d be back on the road by dusk, check in with Mercer, give Maven his regards in the morning, take care of whatever business he could collect on quickly, and he’d be on his way back to Windhelm to do his fair share in three, four days tops.

                Bofur was already up for the day, the swell of the man’s soft body jiggling as he tilled the cool earth at an easy pace, getting his work in before the fresh spring sun made him clear a mile radius of all life with his stink alone. Not early enough, unfortunately, to miss Bofur’s opening act of curling the hairs on the inside of Brynjolf’s nose, though.

                The man _really_ needed to pick up some basic hygiene practices…

                “Bofur,” Brynjolf greeted thinly, maintaining a respectful abide forced smile as the man looked up and his face broke into a bright grin.

                “Brygolf, me frend,” he called, impossibly warm and impossibly loud, “you come to old Bofur. What bring you?”

                His smile pressed thin, breath going shallow as he dismounted.

                “I have business in the area unfortunately. I was hoping you might watch the beast for me for a while, while I take care of it? I should be back before nightfall and you know Glados won’t give you trouble.”

                “Of coz, of coz. Old Bofur will keep Glazo company on you job. Be save though, Brygolf, me frend, old Bofur saw witchmam climb to save place before sun woke,” the old man advised, one of his thick sausage fingers jabbing towards the rocky face of Cragpeak.

                Great…

                Wispmothers always seemed to take up residency in the cave whenever winter’s chill began its retreat and the last thing he had any desire to do was fight one of them away from the place before he tried to catch some shut eye.

                Hopefully this time they didn’t freeze the sleeping rolls shut.

                Or the mead solid.

                “I’ll check it out right away. Thank you for the advice, friend.”

                As soon as he was a good league away, he sucked in a breath of fresh air.

                Halfwit though Bofur might be, the man was a rabid bear when offended and it just was easier to stay friendly with the stout Breton if he wanted to not worry about bandits trying to take off with his horse while he slept.

                Under the cover of the Rift’s budding groves, he managed to make good pace up the overgrown path and scaled the cliff face as quickly as he dared, frowning deeply when it was not the scent of frost magic as he approached the great window that overlooked the valley below, but the aroma of smoke.

                It took a quick glance through the small gaps of the rock face to see Bofur’s apparent Wispmother as well.

                Reignhart the White’s pale fingers were bloody as she carefully opened the belly of a skinned and headless rabbit with one of her daggers, eyes steady and calm as she removed the innards and separated the one particular organ, the liver, from the rest to inspect the color, a deep and healthy red, before picking up her dagger to begin butchering.

                Then her familiar low and disinterested voice reached his ears.

                “You should have put your hood up if you wanted to go less noticed among the spring green, Red.”

                So she had seen him before he even made his way up the mountain.

                “You have a good eye, lass,” he stated as he hauled himself in through the great window.

                “Hello, Brynjolf.”

                She knew his name.

                But he knew her’s too.

                “What brings Reignhart the White to the Rift?”

                Dark eyes flicked back to him, expression unreadable. And then, with a faint and almost annoyed shake of her head, she briefly pointed up and then turned her attention back to the rabbit.

                Suspicious, he watched her for a long moment before glancing to the ceiling where she was drying several thick bundles of plants with broad clusters of small white flowers and lacy leaves, reminiscent of Queen’s Lace if not for the unpleasant musty scent that was distinctive to its look-alike.

                Poison hemlock.

                “You strike me more as someone who prefers to slit her target’s throat,” he admitted.

                “This is merely to help an old man sleep a little better at night.”

                “But for how long?”

                It was a subtle sound, that amused huff, one that he almost missed as he leaned back against the wall of the stony room, and he wondered if he had managed even the faintest quirk of a _smile_ out of her.

                Perhaps she wasn’t as cold as he thought.

                “I suppose you came here to get some rest yourself.”

                “What gives you that impression?”

                “The fact that you’re in this place. The climb is hazardous with the slightest bit of rain and with only sleeping rolls, firewood, and mead stocked up, it’s obvious that it isn’t meant for long-term stay unless one brings their own food,” she analyzed as she popped the joints on her rabbit’s hips and cut away the legs, putting them aside with the rest of the quarters.

                Impressed, he leaned against the wall behind him.

                So this eagle-eyed creature was the true form of that reckless girl he had met a month ago, no longer a grief-stricken survivor but a steady and thriving woman.

                That news would at least be relieving to Delvin.

                “How long do you intend to stay here, lass?”

                “Why do you want to know?”

                “The man might not be part of that life anymore but Delvin Mallory still calls you family and I think he’d like to know how Astrid’s little girl doing.”

                Brynjolf was almost startled to recognize that she _hesitated_ under his words, a reaction that would have been missed entirely if he hadn’t been watching the assassin closely.

                There and gone, she played as though it never happened as she finished up her work.

                He waited though.

                She seemed to do well when given time.

                So he let her have her time, watched her skewer the legs and belly meat on long thin branches that she settled at the edges of the flames and wrap everything left of the kill up in the fur, a twist, a knot, and it was a neat little package.

                “Are you heading out or heading back?”

                His lips twisted into a relaxed smile. “Going home.”

                She nodded in absent and rose to her bare feet, walking until she found a dark puddle somewhere in the rocky floor and then she knelt to wash her hands and bloodied knife, “The hemlock will take time before it’s ready. I might as well escort you.”

                Well now.

                This was turning out even better than he originally thought.

                A report for Mercer and more than a bit of news for Delvin.

                And…

                “You know… if you’re up for the challenge, my outfit could always use someone of your talents,” he suggested.

                She flicked the water from her hands and returned her weapon to its concealed place, “as an assassin or as a thief?”

                “The Guild doesn’t deal in killing but you never know.”

                Reignhart’s only reply was a simple “We’ll see.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                Brynjolf’s sleep was uneasy and shallow, a deep inhale the signal his body naturally gave sometimes seconds before the stillness broke like the flick of a fish’s tail against the surface of a quiet lake.

                Green eyes would flutter open, he’d heave a sigh, adjust his position, and fall back to sleep.

                Some people just didn’t sleep well, whether their consciousness was clear or tainted.

                She had not managed a proper deep sleep since the reality of her situation had set in some days after she had begun the basic footwork for her task in the Pale, every dream invaded with the choke of smoke and searching, _searching_ for anyone alone in the ash-streaked darkness.

                And she _always_ woke up with the sensation of a shroud of cobwebs clinging to her face.

                Insulting Daedric Lords was risky business as every logical person well knew and despite that, she _willfully_ did so as the opportunities presented themselves. Five of the seventeen was quite an achievement and she boasted four proud trophies as the result, but it seemed that in claiming the prize of her first teacher’s Queen, she had tested her luck too much.

                Reignhart liked to think that she got the last laugh though with a certain blackened corpse rendered to shards.

                She would be indentured to _no one_ , not Mehrunes Dagon, not Namira, not Molag Bal, not Boethiah, and certainly not Mephala either.

                No one would have her.

                She wouldn’t let them.

                Resting her eyes, she listened to the wind that whistled through the cracks and the birds as they called, a pair of lonely crickets somewhere dark and cold and Brynjolf, remaining silent and still for hours until the temperature began to drop and then came the sound of her company’s heaving sigh, a shift, and a slow groan that usually accompanied sitting up from a stiff sleeping position.

                Above curled knees and through the fine curtain of her hair, she watched the red-haired Nord carefully arch his back, arms stretched above his head briefly before giving his neck a quiet crack.

                And then he seemed to be ready.

                “Lass?”

                Silently, she propped her chin upon her knees and let her steady gaze meet his, the man letting out a breath of amusement.

                “Well then, I suppose we should get going.”

                Without hesitation, they did.

                Side by side, they scaled down the mountain of Cragpeak and she maintained a polite distance from the home of a Breton who deeply reeked like troll musk while Brynjolf fetched his horse, gifting the man with her rabbit’s entrails that he could use as good fishing bait, and once he returned with a handsome chestnut-colored creature who skirted uneasily when she called for Shadowmere, and raced fearfully ahead of her black friend’s powerful strides.

                By the time they reached Riften, the stallion’s great chest was heaving powerfully from the pace.

                Although the stablemaster was irritable over the hour Brynjolf had woken him at, all it took was one look at Shadowmere for the man to give an impressed whistle. “Quite a beast you have there,” Hofgrir Stable-Crusher commented, all sleepy annoyance handwaved to get a closer look.

                “Thank you. He was a gift,” she stated, stroking the beast’s muzzle as she told the creature firmly, “behave.”

                Reignhart fell into pace behind Brynjolf as they entered the city, her expression fixed with disinterest as he lead her through the thick mist, a single thief glancing her over like a meal and all she had to do was merely cock a brow, tilt her head at the redhead’s back, and that was all it took to ensure a clean retreat before they descended to the water’s edge.

                The rumored city beneath the city was just as decrepit and unimpressive as she last recalled from her errand to have Amaund Motierre’s down payment appraised, but progress usually ran slow in outfits that were having as deep a delve into the mallory as Astrid suggested they were, starting some twenty-five years previous with the murder of the Guildmaster.

                The sight of Delvin leaning against the bar of the Flagon as he spoke with the Imperial bouncer filled her with a strange flutter in her stomach, something hollow yet hopeful, and for a moment she only watched until the gruff Imperial’s eyes rested on her too long and Delvin curiously glanced over his shoulder.

                “Rain,” he murmured, eyes growing wide with surprise.

                “Hi, Delvin.”

                He didn’t seem to know what to say, at a complete loss for words under her very presence and then he gave a subtle shake of his head, a scoff, and finally settled with, “get over here, girl.”

                All eyes in the Flagon were on her.

                And they watched her take three narrow steps forward and allowed Delvin Mallory to tug her into an almost fearfully tight embrace, and though she did not return the hug, she allowed herself to relax under the contact, eye closing and for long moments, she leaned against his larger body.

                There was a life they both had once known and now the only fractured remains that were left could be found in each other.

                Such little comforts would have to be enough.

                A deep inhale and it was slowly let out before Delvin relaxed his hold.

                A long moment of silence as he just looked at her.

                And then frowned.

                “Where in Oblivion have you been?”

                Ah, there it was.

                And she couldn’t help the tiny smile that curved on her lips at his angry concern.

                “Dawnstar.”

                Delvin’s scowl grew fierce and she cut him off before he could scold her for loitering in the very Hold where the enemy of her clan was in a seat of power and could easily order a manhunt for her if he knew she was there, “I have not been without an exercise of caution, Delvin. Not after what just happened.”

                He studied her for several long moments and then relented with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes I forget you’ve been doing this for a while.”

                “The concern is appreciate nonetheless, friend.”

                A huff, and he motioned to a table. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll get us a drink and you can fill me in on your mischief.”

                Brynjolf chuckled, shaking his head, somehow satisfied in witnessing the encounter, and then he removed himself from the Flagon. He had business elsewhere no doubt.

                He wasn’t the only one.

                No longer dubbing her the most interesting thing in the Flagon, the other occupants of the space turned their attention to other things and after Delvin presented her with a bottle of good Sujamma, the two sat down together to talk.

                They talked about lighter things, what had occurred since they last spoke, about the contract that jeweled amulet had been for and how they had managed all of two parts of it before that crazy bastard Cicero tried killing Astrid. She sent the Listener after him, and she sent Reignhart after Nolas. Astrid didn’t trust him after the last fumble, and she had reason to not trust him yet again when the Imperial let Cicero live. Reignhart made certain that the job got done though, and when Nolas lied to Astrid, she called him out on it, with proof of Cicero’s head in tow.

                That was when the Penitus Oculatus caught them with their pants down.

                They had broken down the black door and flooded in, overwhelming Veezara in the front room, Arnbjorn in the main hall, and Gabriella in the crafters den with sheer numbers while they set the place to flames. She, Nolas, and Nazir got pinned together in the dining room against the intruders, and that was what saved them, until an explosion took out a couple main supports and the sanctuary began to collapse in on itself.

                Nolas was caught up in the debris and didn’t make it past the sleeping quarters.

                They ran into Babette in the Night Mother’s chamber where the flames blocked off all options of escape with the exception of the Window of Sithis that stood behind the iron coffin and when she cut down the crone’s dusty corpse so it could be light enough for she and Nazir to push it through the window, the room came down on their head and she was knocked into the coffin.

                Given where she regained consciousness, it was safe to say that the collapse knocked the coffin through the window and it settled upside-down behind the shelter of the waterfall.

                By the time she escaped from the iron tomb, all that was left of the Sanctuary was ash and ruin.

                “And Astrid?” Delvin asked.

                “Burned to death.”

                Her voice had remained even the entire time she shared the tale.

                He slouched against the table, scouring a hand over his shaved head and shook his head. “Damn.”

                “Your man showed up in time to keep me from incidentally burying myself while trying to gather everyone.”

                He sighed. “Good timing then. Otherwise I would have lost you too.”

                Reignhart gazed at him for a long moment before her eyes shifted to the rest of the Flagon while she took a swallow of Sujamma, deciding what next to say.

                Finally, she settled with the recent proposal that was a safe enough topic to change to.

                “It was suggested that there might be work available for me among the Guild.”

                He gazed at her and nodded, “Yeah, I think I can find something for you but are you planning on sticking around or looking for fast coin?”

                “You know I like sticking with a system.”

                That made Delvin finally quirk a smile after her grim story.

                “Well then. Let me have a chat with Mercer first and I’ll see what I can give you.”

                Mercer Frey.

                She had seen him only in small glimpses in the past and the grim and shaggy Breton had given her the same gut feeling as Cicero did; that he was not to be trusted.

                Delvin told her to sit tight and then disappeared down the same way Brynjolf had, leaving the small Nord assassin with two Imperials, a Redguard, and one other Nord.

                She finished her Sujamma in the time it took for him to come back.

                “I think I’ve got something you might like.”


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The game was an old and familiar one within the Dark Brotherhood; the information would be simple and the instructions, basic. A feast had been prepared, but the table needed to be cleaned and set before the meal could begin.

                Oh, she did know that the city of Whiterun belonged to the Thieves Guild again, Astrid had been quite surprised when the news came that they had reclaimed it during the dragon mishap the previous year, but this was the first time she had realized that the Guild had bases in any city but Riften.

                _Had_ being the key word.

                Rats liked living in the Ratway but it was bad business when they started occupying the Cistern and Flagon too, the bowels beneath the heart infested and in order to clean the mess out, she had to find the vein that the vermin were crawling in through.

                Delvin had hinted that it was hidden beneath a _scar_.

                A raise in the flesh, a cleft in the land.

                And she found it.

                It was a nice and shallowly sheltered ridge to the north-west of the city where bandits were loitering with their ill-gotten claims, watching, waiting, being fat and lazy with the hour and the smell of mead and whiskey on their breath, just before she soaked the air with the sweet aroma of frost and blood too.

                Shadowmere snorted as he nudged at their corpses, more interested in the dead than what she was doing as she rearranged everything at the camp and finally found the trapdoor cleverly hidden beneath a chest. There wasn’t much of value at the camp, food, mead, some gold, but why would they leave the real prizes out in the open?

                Her friend would make certain she would not be disturbed as she descended into the bowels.

                Through the darkness Reignhart’s strained ears could only pick up the rare drips of water and her own shallow breaths as she carefully tread on bare feet through the narrow winding tunnel that must have taken years just to carved through the sturdy bedrock of Whiterun Hold, the walls too cold and hard to give way without the proper disruption to the earth, siege equipment or maybe even an explosion from below.

                The thought chilled her, the memory of a support going out and the world coming down on her, Nazir, and Nolas all too soon for this place and it was the taste of blood in her mouth, the sharp stinging wound bitten into her lip that brought her back to the surface.

                Panicking could wait until her dreams.

                It would _not_ control her while she was conscious, she would _not_ let it.

                Reignhart continued forth, steeled and tempered until the tunnel gave way to a flat and sturdy surface with laid stone rather than carved and before her there was a door, light softly glowing beneath the edge and she could hear and smell rain water that must have been coming in from the street drains, as well as voices rough, careless, and boisterous.

                Unaware of her presence.

                Ignorant to the threat she posed.

                She still needed to send a certain bottle of poison to Bulfrek rather soon after wasting so much time in the Rift so there was little reason to deal with this particular matter slowly.

                There was always a certain _thrill_ that accompanied being a little reckless, she thought to herself as she slit the throat of the first bandit she snuck up on, catching the group unaware until blood was already spurting into the air.

                Shouts and fingers were cut off with equal effort, weapons clattering to the floor while their owners gurgled uselessly on their own life, four, five, eight bandits in short order, some with more time than others before they joined their fellows, and as red slowly seeped into the cracks in the floor, she moved on from the cistern.

                There was less to this base than there was to the one in Riften, just the way she came in, the cistern, one room full of beds, a small room that gave access to the sewer that’s only real point of interest was a small, decrepit, and neglected statue of an unidentified woman, and another ladder that opened up a trap door behind the Bannered Mare.

                That was it.

                Highly unimpressive, just as the bandits had been, but it was the Guild’s.

                All the bodies were dragged into the sewer where the elements would eventually wash them of all recognition, washed the stones of blood from the canal, and then checked over the contents of every room more closely before Reignhart headed back the way she came.

                It was still raining when she resurfaced and Shadowmere’s strong flanks shuddered under the downpour.

                By the time they arrived to the stables, the scent of the sewer was long washed from her skin and clothes.

                “Welcome back,” the stablemaster greeted her, recognizing her from last time as she dismounted.

                “Lovely weather we’re having,” she commented dryly, earning a laugh.

                “Good for the farms at least,” he agreed as she handed Shadowmere’s reigns to the man, the beast aware from last time that the man was no bandit, and went easily with him as she made her way up the wet road to the gates of Whiterun, a package tucked in her arms for the post.

                The courier clerk looked up from her work as she entered, tracking water as she approached the counter.

                “What can I do for you?”

                “I need this sent to Bulfrek in Dawnstar,” Reignhart said as she approached the counter, settling the leather-bound gift on the counter and fished out a humble coin purse for the matter, “please.”

                It was an open and closed matter.

                Recipient name, location, pay, and done.

                And as she walked past the gate guards, she heard a murmuring of last month’s murder, some stupid stuffy Breton who paid Hulda a lot of money just to take up the back room and be an annoyance, killed by the Imperial who had come with him. Big brute took down two guards before they put him down for good.

                Murderers within the walls of Whiterun weren’t going to be tolerated, they were civil folk after all.

                Reignhart smiled to herself as she returned to Shadowmere, thanked the stablemaster for housing him for that little while, and then it was only the path to Riften stretched out before her with her little gift for Bulfrek on its way with a kind little note, bidding him good rest and to be careful with the dose, the stuff was powerful and pungent. A couple drops with an evening glass of wine should be enough to sleep through the night.

                And he would.

                Skald the Elder would sleep soundly until the day he breathed his last with that poison built up in his body.

                Twice she stopped to rest for scarce hours and the stablemaster of Riften was glad to see her, or at least her impressive horse, when she returned in the evening.

                Delvin graced her with a wiry smile as she presented him with the news.

                The Thieves Guild could rest their weary heads safely again under the walls of Whiterun.

                “You’re doing good, girl,” he told her, giving her arm a squeeze as he laughed, pleased. “Come on, let’s fill Mercer in on the news.”

                Oh goodie.

                Her expression returned to neutral as she followed Delvin, not to the Cistern hidden behind the cabinet she knew was false, or even to the Ratway Vaults, but to a room just before.

                It took long moments after Delvin knocked for the Guildmaster to answer, his armor barely put on, and he bared his teeth in bitterness.

                “This better be good,” he growled at Delvin.

                “Sorry for waking you,” Delvin easily stated, “but we’ve got the Whiterun base back.”

                Mercer squinted at him and then narrowed his eyes at the pale woman looming behind the other Breton.

                “And I suppose you want to join up,” he grumbled, straightening if only in the effort to appear menacing. “We’re not looking for sellswords. If you want to be part of the Guild, I want proof you can manage our line of work first.”

                “She can manage,” Delvin started.

                “ _Proof_ , not heresay,” Mercer snapped before those nasty eyes that he had set back upon her again.

                “Go to Markarth, fetch a document from the home of Nepos the Nose. I don’t want to see you again without it.”

                “Mercer, you can’t be serious! That place is a shithole right now!” Delvin blanched.

                But it made Reignhart smile all the same.

                She did like a challenge.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The collection of information and evidence he had presented to Loriel had been enough to turn the elf’s stomach inside out within scarce moments of flicking through the pages.

                Fear.

                Unmeasurable terror.

                The horror was not in how many Thalmor spies there were within Windhelm but over how close they had been to both him and his brother for so long; some of them were people he had shared stories with in the market, joked over bottles of mead, sang for by the docks, people he had thought he could be safe around.

                But after almost eight weeks of constant inspection as they combed the city, Brynjolf was almost certain they had discovered all of the Thalmor spies for the Altmer and subsequently, the Thieves Guild had been promised an appropriate foothold for their work.

                The job had gone well for being the second one in Windhelm that Loriel was personally invested in.

                The last one had been three years back with that minor scuffle with the Summerset Shadows that Loriel insisted on taking and who were they to deny the adventuring bard who typically spent his visits otherwise pushing numbers for them. He did do the job to perfection, chasing the rivalling guild out of their territory and making sure a particular silver locket made its way back into the hands of Torsen Cruel-Sea. The concerning part had been afterwards when the Mer spent the following three months at the bottom of the bottle. At least he did eventually crawl back out, and at least this time, things had turned out in their favor.

                Disturbers of the peace though they were, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak had finally come to agree with his Altmer lover that the Guild could be a necessary evil to oppose the Thalmor and there was a high chance of similar jobs in the future considering the way he had reacted to the news as well.

                He was willing to tolerate their presence providing their usefulness remained available.

                It wasn’t every day that the Guild could say they had the mild favor of a potential High King, especially considering the news that came the afternoon before of the Imperial retreat, and for that, Brynjolf would consider it all a job well done.

                The Ragged Flagon was alive with mirth at the pay off, everyone’s pockets a fair amount fatter while Loriel’s credit got significantly smaller.

                It was a rare treat.

                An even rarer treat though was seeing an unassuming woman with impossibly dark eyes and white hair stride into the Flagon like a wolf among sheep, speaking to Delvin quietly, and then the two of them went back to the Cistern.

                Thirty minutes later, Reignhart returned alone.

                And with the exception of the jacket folded over her arm, she was wearing Thieves Guild armor.

                So it was official then.

                She was part of the family.

                Those dark eyes of her were on him, approach steady.

                “Welcome to the family, lass.”

                She smiled faintly to him, a slight tilt of her head, and she pulled out a chair to sit down with him.

                “I was advised to speak to you about this job I’ve been given,” she told him, arms folded in front of her on the table, leaning forward a little bit, her voice barely audible over the proud sounds of the Flagon.

                “Already? Well, what’s Mercer given to you?”

                “Goldenglow.”

                Brynjolf blinked, startled. “He has you doing that? Not even our little Vex could get in.” And Vex was sure to be offended when she found out that job had been handed off to someone else. The Imperial was proud like that.

                Reignhart simply spread her fingers in an absent _it’s what Mercer told me to do_ gesture with a shrug.

                Brynjolf cast a glance to the rest of the Flagon, Delvin returning and immediately heading over to the bar, Dirge and Tonilia amused as Vex was beating Garthar in round after round of cards, the man already down to nothing but his boots and smalls, various other thieves who had been part of the Windhelm job talking and drinking, and then he turned his attention back to Reignhart and those steady eyes of hers.

                And so he gave her the facts.

                Goldenglow Estate was a bee farm owned by a bosmer Aringoth. The job was to burn down three of the bee hives, _only_ three, and to bring back the contents of the safe in the house. Easy enough job except for the mercenaries that had stood between Vex and success. Whatever Reignhart did with the mercenaries didn’t matter, he could already tell she wasn’t concerned about the threat they posed, but Maven wanted that smart-mouthed wood elf alive and for enough hives to still be around to keep the honey flowing.

                “You watch yourself on that island, lass. Those mercenaries don’t take prisoners,” was his final warning.

                The woman only smiled, something sly and playful, _flirtatious_ almost, and replied, “neither do I.” before she joined Delvin at the bar briefly and soon after left with a ceramic jug of sujamma.

                Delvin only shook his head as he watched her go, concerned for her safety.

                “Think she’ll run into trouble?” Brynjolf asked as he joined the man a couple minutes after.

                Delvin only sighed. “She handled clearing out the bandits from the Whiterun base, but I’m not sure about those mercenaries that idiot hired.”

                “She doesn’t strike me as being reckless,” _this time_ , “she’ll probably sneak right under their noses and be back out in no time at all.

                And how wrong he was.

                Reignhart waltzed right through the front gate, burned the three hives to code, and bloodied every mercenary that crossed her all before she walked right back into the Ragged Flagon a narrow six hours later with a curious golden statue for Delvin, plenty of loot, and a roll of parchment that was sure to either please or displease Mercer.

                Brynjolf was leaning more towards displeasure after he read it himself.

                Maven was going to be furious.

                “I’ll make sure this makes its way into Mercer’s hands. He’ll need to look it over and then, we’ll see what needs to be done. There are jobs that you can do in the meantime.”

                “I actually already have plans,” Reignhart stated as she rose from her seat, pocketing her cut.

                “Oh?”

                And she _smiled_ , sweet and playful.

                “If I’m not back before you need me, send word to Aldis in Solitude. He’ll make sure it gets to me.”

                _Aldis? The Imperial Captain?_

                But she was already gone before he could ask.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, this is also posted on my Fanfiction account too. Same name, same story. Enjoy. And don't forget to comment please.

                The patrons of the Winking Skeever were filled with unease, distressed over the sudden orders given by General Tullius himself for all Imperial soldiers to retreat to Solitude, some taking refuge under family and friends within the walls, some even camped in the streets like ingrates, but so so many were camped out on the grounds leading up to the city with their camp-mates and fort-fellows, every one of them whispering theories of defeat or that the Stormcloaks were going to march upon the city, every one of them wondering why Tullius suddenly gave the order when they still had Falkreath hold and Hjaalmarch under their power while Whiterun continued survive as a neutral territory in the war for some reason.

                She had arrived during the night, curious, and while Tullius’s private quarters were locked up tighter than a clam with lockjaw, they weren’t impossible to get into.

                Even Elenwen’s nosy people wanted to know the General’s reasons but she knew not one person would know they were gone until their corpses started to stink up the rafters in a few weeks, or even, considering the Windhelm job Delvin had mentioned, miss them.

                Reignhart wondered though how long the Provincial Governor intended to keep this secret from his soldiers as she watched far too many Imperial uniforms as they mozied about the inn, each one with drinks in their hands and worry on their faces.

                Until she finally saw who she was waiting for.

                “Aldis,” she called through the crowd, raising a pale hand to get the Nordic Legion captain’s attention from his position at the door, quick to rise to her feet before she was swept up into the relieved embrace of a cousin who looked so much like her father.

                She hugged him back.

                Eleven years in Skyrim and only Aldis, Auntie Margret, Uncle Branvulf, and Gaban had earned the right to the gesture.

                She kept the embrace until he finally released her from it, his brawny hands circling her slim upper arms as he said with worry in his tone, “you had us all worried when your letters stopped coming, Rain.”

                “I ran into some trouble, cousin, but I’m safe now,” she gently assured him before urging him to sit down with her before someone else bothered to try to claim her table.

                “You shouldn’t be out in that forest alone like you do. Falkreath isn’t safe.”

                “Well you don’t have to worry about me there anymore. I packed up for Riften when I saw black smoke rising in the hills,” she told him with a pointed look, “and you _know_ I can handle a few thieves.”

                Her cousin worried just as badly as Delvin with not a quarter of the knowledge of her personal criminal background.

                Fixing her with a long look, he eventually relented with a sigh.

                “Just don’t get in trouble, alright?”

                She sighed at him.

                “I _promise_ I will exercise caution, Aldis,” she insisted, just as she had assured him, her auntie, and her uncle since the day she returned to Skyrim and reconnected with her father’s family, just as she had assured Delvin that she had while slinking about Dawnstar in the month following the attack on the Sanctuary.

                He would have to take her word for it at least.

                She was no pinnacle of being careful, not with her line of work, but there were always risks.

                And he relented, rolling eyes that matched hers before Corpulus Vinius’s son hurried over to take their orders, a dark and handsome ale that Reignhart knew her cousin reserved for celebrations, perhaps in honor of her visit, and a wheat beer for her since the Winking Skeever unfortunately did not keep a supply of sujamma stocked despite the number of dark elves she knew that lived in the city.

                “Are you planning on staying for long?” Aldis asked.

                “Until I feel sure that you, Auntie, and Uncle Branvulf are safe. A retreat of this size isn’t normal,” she told him.

                “It’s not,” he agreed, “and no one know why.”

                “You mean the General hasn’t told you anything?”

                “Not yet. He wants all the men gathered tomorrow morning for an announcement though, so I’m sure we’ll find out then. Some are fearing the worst, that perhaps the rebel forces are rallying to attack Solitude itself even though all reports of Stormcloak activity say they haven’t moved from their positions.”

                “Is it possible,” she suggested slowly when the boy returned with their drinks, “that this might be an actual Imperial retreat?”

                He balked at the very idea.

                “What? No! Those orders would have to come from the Emperor himself!”

                Aldis wasn’t far off at least.

                “But Tullius hasn’t given orders yet so isn’t it still possible?”

                He frowned fiercely, not liking what she was hinting at.

                “It is…” he admitted quietly, “but we won’t know until tomorrow.”

                And it was her turn to frown sympathetically.

                “Well I won’t leave until we all know for sure. Ok?”

                Aldis was at least a little relieved by her insistence to stick around.

                They were family after all.

                It wasn’t until after they finished their drinks that her cousin walked her to his parent’s house, where Auntie Margret greeted her with surprise and a startlingly tight hug, her father’s sister being the one her cousin got all his good looks from while Uncle Branvulf, a kind faced man with fairer features than his son, gave her shoulder a mild and affectionate squeeze, glad to have her.

                They knew where her clan was in Morrowind and she was with them, where they all could be assured of each other’s safety.

                They didn’t have much room in that small house, but they set her up for the night in Aldis’s old room before her cousin returned to Castle Dour and the following morning, she woke ahead of dawn’s first light to make a humble breakfast for them, and then went to meet Aldis when everyone began to gather for General Tullius’s announcement.

                In a brief glimpse through the crowd, she thought she caught a glimpse of someone who had once made Astrid fume quite regularly over losses until it got to the point that unless the coin on his head equaled the cut for all the Brothers that had been lost, she would not send any more people after that particular smart mouthed Altmer who had at least three names running around Skyrim for at least the last twenty years, possibly longer.

                Lovira, a polished member of the Dawnguard until he abandoned it.

                Mithnar, a skilled bard under the College for almost 16 years until the Civil War began.

                And Loriel Elsinlock.

                A Mer who had been at large for 50 years, which explained his lengthy survival against even the Brotherhood of Skyrim, and had taken refuge in Windhelm following his escape from Helgen.

                She knew that man’s face.

                But this one…

                Last she was aware, the Summerset Isle fugitive did not have a nose like a Breton.

                This man stood with a gold skinned little boy as young as three seated on his shoulders, with a woman standing beside him with a wide-eyed toddler in her arms. And on the other side of the woman, two little girls stood on top of a barrel, one even tall enough to rest her chin on her younger sister’s head.

                They had come just like the rest of Solitude had in order to hear Tullius speak.

                Strange to think she had never seen Altmers so young before.

                It was the sudden hush in the crowd of people that told her General Tullius had finally stepped out to speak.

                And all eyes came to rest upon the Imperial man.

                He stood stoic and proud, but not without his own unique brand of melancholy as he gazed over the crowd of so many citizens and soldiers, the Jarl of Solitude standing behind him, a mere puppet by comparison.

                Reignhart couldn’t see the Thalmor Ambassador, but that did not mean that she wasn’t there too.

                Finally, the Imperial drew a breath and began to speak, loud and clear.

                He had no voice of a Nord, but he could carry when he needed to.

                “It is under the orders of the Emperor Titus Mede II that all soldiers stay their weapons and stand down,” he began, his words lacking in charisma that would have served a general well in dealing with his soldiers and especially the masses.

                But instead, the man’s speech bumbled like a fool and swiftly stirred anxiety through the crowd, so loud that what was said next was completely missed until Tullius lost patience and stated sharply, “This is not a surrender!”

                “The Emperor is handing victory to the rebels!” someone shouted.

                “He is abandoning us!” someone else worried.

                “The Emperor is taking into consideration the lives that have been lost and the lives that could be lost in the future,” Tullius replied, frowning fiercely but it failed to reach his eyes quite the way Mercer Frey’s scowl always did.

                Reignhart rolled her eyes, only hoping that the messages Tillius had sent out to his troops had been worded a lot better than this nonsense had, and leaned towards her cousin, “your General sucks at quenching panic.”

                And entirely at speeches as well, considering the rest of whatever he had intended to say was interrupted with statements and questions of fear to the point that by the time a soldier pushed through the crowd, it was obvious General Tullius had lost control of the matter.

                “Stormcloak forces are approaching!” the soldier shouted up to the General, unable to get through the crowd.

                True panic ensued.

                The Altmer man managed to sweep his family to a corner of the yard, out of the way of those spineless citizens who were rushing back to their homes to cower, and if it wasn’t for Aldis, Reignhart likely would have been caught up in the crowd.

                “Come on, to the wall,” he told her, protecting his short cousin from the pushing and shoving with his body as he himself cut through the crowd like an oar through water, General Tullius giving orders to any soldier who could hear him to gather at the gate and Reignhart was quickly caught up in the orders he gave to Aldis to go to the top of the gate, keep the situation controlled up there. He did not want a single arrow fired unless the situation called for the soldiers to defend themselves.

                Aldis asked her to take up one side among the forces at the top of the wall, he had to keep an eye on the soldiers, and so she settled herself up as high as she could to catch sight of everything.

                General Tullius standing mere yards past the gate while the familiar gold skinned woman with bone white hair wrapped up in Thalmor robes stood behind him, and past the sea of red where not a single weapon was drawn but she knew every soldier’s hands hovered, she saw a… startlingly small force of blue slowly making their way towards the city.

                There couldn’t have been much more than fifty people in all moving at a pace that was comfortable enough for the soldiers to keep up with the few horses that were present.

                And among the sea of blue, she saw two golden skinned people astride horses some ways behind the man who was leading it all.

                Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the rebellion.

                Some Imperial soldier seemed baffled that the warlord had come with such a small force, expecting a fight, while others were recalling what they had been told not even an hour before, the soldiers along the path below informed with written messages while Tullius had addressed the citizens.

                This was a surrender and Ulfric had come to claim a prize.

                But even then, one would have assumed that the victor would have come with a show of power, not… this.

                This was basic security at the very worst and only a fraction of his own forces who had come from Solitude itself at best, perhaps even a combination of both.

                Ulfric Stormcloak looked dauntless as Arnbjorn with twice the keen intelligence and calm as the eye of a storm as his force came to a stop within the walls before Solitude’s gate, surrounded on all sides by Imperial forces that anyone half-sober easily would know that if Tullius gave the order, they could easily slaughter the rebel forces standing on their doorstep.

                But he was staying his hand.

                And with interest, Reignhart watched as the Jarl dismounted his horse, all the others on horses following as well although one Altmer struggled some, and the force held back while their leader approached Tullius.

                Only those who were very close behind Tullius would hear whatever was said between the two, Ulfric’s hands peacefully at his sides while Tullius remained defensive with his body language, uneasy.

                Whatever game they were playing at, it seemed that it would be announced soon as Ulfric turned his attention to the Thalmor Ambassador behind Tullius and stated in a voice that carried quite a ways but hardly what anyone could call even a yell, “The Thalmor are unwelcome in Skyrim.”

                He was giving them two weeks to leave, and he warned her that if anyone was suspected of being one of her’s, they would be arrested after that point.

                Elenwen’s words were lost, the Jarl’s forces seeming pleased and the Imperials more subtle about it before the woman turned on her heel and stalked through the gate, the heavy wooden door hardly quiet as it shut after.

                And then, Ulfric made what Reignhart would have called a dangerous decision as he turned his back to the Imperial General and steadied himself, standing tall and calm as he briefly surveyed every man and woman who was watching, and then he began his speech, his voice strong and loud and it filled the area of the gate and perhaps went even further.

                This was a man with the power of the Voice in his throat, everyone was reminded.

                “We have come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our fellows, of those who have fallen, and of those who still stand bearing shields,” he began, irritation quickly settling into the Legion forces going ignored as he continued, “every one of these men and women I speak of know the price that is to be paid for fighting for what they believe in. And every one of you have been willing to pay for it in blood.”

                He paused, taking a moment to analyze how his words affected those who heard.

                And Reignhart could hear the grim tone his voice took up.

                “Many have paid with their very lives. I know that many of you have found yourselves looking across the battlefield at people wearing familiar faces and you have known that those enemies based upon different ideals were once your kin.”

                Slowly, the assassin’s eyes widened as the realization took hold of what all this was.

                What Ulfric was saying.

                What he was _doing_ with this show of force.

                This was not a victory speech.

                It was an apology.

                To everyone.

                “I know that many of you doubt my intentions here today. And you should doubt me. I have given so many of you little reason to trust my word,” he admitted to the Imperial forces, “why should you trust me now after each and every one of you here today have been made to leave the peace you once knew in order to take up weapons and battle the chaos. You are uncertain and you should be. You should question, is this all worth it?”

                He steadied himself, the attention of every soldier suddenly raptured, practically holding their breath for what might be said next.

                This was not the tyrant every Imperial supporter expected him to be, and not the victorious man every Stormcloak soldier believed of him.

                “There is no shame in such thoughts,” Ulfric Stormcloak told them, softer almost with shame. “I ask myself that question every day.”

                And then his voice regained its confidence, certain of what it is he was about to announce as he continued, “But I do not question that there is no shame in fighting for what you believe in. That no matter what banner you have fought under in this war, you have all fought under a banner of Skyrim,” he said, well aware that many people who backed the Imperial army were fearful of being forced to leave and his words were almost balm to the worries.

                “Some of you may see this moment as a defeat.”

                Many of the Imperials sure had.

                “And some of you as a victory.”

                Many of the Stormcloaks definitely had.

                “But no matter what colors you have flown in these past years, know that you will not be barred from your homes, because you are already here.” A moment, just long enough to swallow perhaps, and then he addressed the side matter of those who felt uneasy. “Those of you who have found that your home lies elsewhere will be welcome to go.”

                It was the five words that followed after that sealed the moment, _in safety and in peace_.

                Tullius had tried to proudly state that this was not a surrender but they all knew that this was a lie.

                The victory went to the Stormcloaks, and yet the warlord who stood before them all was far from the tyrant everyone had believed him to be. He was not going to condemn anyone for choosing sides, nor would he chase them away.

                Ulfric Stormcloak was laying down his weapon before the people even more than General Tullius, and every single person who had a good set of ears was almost acutely aware of it.

                Almost.

                A few men down from her, Reignhart heard an angry shout directed at the Jarl.

                “And what of Solitude?!” he demanded to know. “You speak honeyed words but you bloodied this pace first!”

                Past him, Reignhart saw Jarl Elisif looking nervous.

                “What say you, King-Killer?!”

                A brief glance back to the blond Jarl told her that he had noticed the woman’s presence as well, and then his expression broke from surprised to nearly sad.

                For long moments, he did not seem to know how to react, and then, once he picked out his words, he spoke again, this time not taking his eyes off of Elisif.

                “To many,” he started, “this war began when I killed King Torygg, but the truth is that I began this war the moment I believed that the best way to secure the freedom of Skyrim’s people was to challenge him.”

                Even from this distance, Reignhart could see the frown on his lips.

                “I believed that what I was doing was right for my country. For my people. For the gods and heritage and traditions I had been raised with,” he said before he turned his strict attention away from the once Queen of Skyrim by marriage and shared his message with more than just her. “I have come to realize my mistake not without the aid of great men, some with gods and heritage and traditions different then my own.”

                Some people wondered who these great men were.

                Some of them didn’t, after all, it wasn’t exactly a secret that the Jarl had mourned the Dragonborn almost more than any other.

                His voice wrung itself of its melancholy and turned hopeful.

                Only at that moment did she hear even the barest touches of pride.

                “On this day of First Planting, the seeds of the autumn harvest are to be sown so that new beginnings can be made,” he told everyone, “and I am here on the doorstep of Solitude so that I may reconcile the disputes I have made so that resolutions may be reached. And so that the men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do today!”

                His hands spread, arms extended like a prayer, like he was finally preaching a message that everyone needed to hear.

                “This is the future we have all fought for, whether by sword or by song! This is for the future of Skyrim! And all of Tamriel!”

                The last exclamation was nearly drowned out by the thunderous cheers that broke loose among the people everywhere, on the wall, past the city gate, down the hill, down the path, every single man and woman roused by the Jarl who was looking forward to the future even more than Tullius had suggested the Emperor had been, and among the crowd of blue, Reignhart watched as one Altmer hugged the other tight, their blond heads barely visible among the raised fists and jostling of high spirits as people broke rank and sought out those separated by color, mingling and the red and the blue blurred to purple while Ulfric turned back to Tullius and the two stepped through the gate, likely to discuss the very things Ulfric had come to resolve.

                A glance and she spotted Aldis carefully parting the soldiers so that Jarl Elisif could head towards Castle Dour where the two once enemies appeared to be going.

                Reignhart smiled to herself, feeling reassured for the sake of her family.

                She would stay a little while longer, observe the festivities and learn what she could of what might be expected of the future, and then she would return to Riften.

                She hoped the Thieves Guild wouldn’t leave her terribly bored amongst all this talk of peace.


End file.
